Grief

The feeling was that of overwhelming grief. Every pore in my body, every cell, ached with sadness, enveloping every one of my senses until nothing remained. I was contained within a cocoon of grief, blissfully unaware of the outside world. The sense of loss was so complete, so total that I remained ignorant of my surroundings. A hand on my shoulder, murmured condolences and a never ending stream of tears. Stuff that should have made an impact, but next to my deep rooted anguish they were inconsequential. How could anyone do such a thing? That was my first thought that wasn't so saturated in sorrow that it meant nothing. I latched on to it and realised that it was saturated, but in anger. Anger at the murderer, anger at myself for not being there and anger at Angie for not bloody well giving him what he wanted. At least that way she'd still be alive.

Angie had been walking down a busy London street, on her way to work as she did every day. She had turned into the alleyway that was her favourite short-cut. She had been on the phone to me at the time. We were talking; no specific topic, just talk. We were comfortable enough with each other that it didn't matter what we were saying. We'd been seeing each other for 3 years now and I had been about to propose. I had been about to ask her to dinner in order to move things along. However I had never got the chance. She'd walked round the corner, not five minutes from her office and straight into a mugger. He had held her at knife-point and demanded her bag. She had kept the phone to her ear the whole time, even while she refused his request. Typical Angie, never stands for any nonsense. Sorry, never stood for any nonsense. Of course at her refusal he turned nasty and without a second thought he stabbed her, eight times. I heard the whole thing over the phone.

I arrived at the scene within minutes, not daring to believe what I'd heard. Her body lay sprawled in an ungainly shape, limbs spread wide. Her hands clutched at her stomach, from which blood refused to stop pumping, even now. She was surrounded by pools of blood, and a motley collection of emergency services. I shouldered my way through the knot of people, holding it together just enough to explain who I was. Once I knelt by her I knew she was dead, her chest no longer rising and falling with breath. It was then I fell into my crushing sorrow, my anguished cries rising above any other noise. Then came the solid, burning pain.

A short while later, when time seemed to hold some significance once again, the police sergeant in charge of the scene pulled me physically to one side. I stood motionless, head drooping, not caring my clothes were plastered to my skin with blood. He gave me a pitying look and then spoke kindly. “We've found the guy who did this, two blocks east of here. If there is anything I can do?” He paused, waiting for a response. My thoughts seemed to take longer to come to fruition, confusion reigning in my mind. After a while, could've been a day for all I cared, I finally spoke.
“I want to see him.” My voice was a lot stronger than I felt. The sergeant nodded once then barked a command into his radio. I heard an affirmative being issued in response and then a car door slam from the other end. They were bringing him to me.

They met us at the road end of the alleyway, with six or seven yards separating us. He was a short, scruffy looking bloke, with shifty, faraway eyes and matted brown hair settled unevenly on his shoulders. He wore camouflage trousers, hiking boots and a black jacket over a plain blue shirt stained with blood. His hands were cuffed behind his back and his face was devoid of emotion. It took me a while to realise that the blood was Angie's. I lost it then. Crossing the space between us in two long strides and swung my arm forward. My fist met his jaw with a satisfying crack and he staggered. Without giving him enough time to recover I followed up with a punch in the gut with my left fist. With a grunt he collapsed to his knees, his own blood trickling out of the corner of his moth and down his chin. It was at that point I stopped realising with shock that neither the sergeant nor the two officers that had escorted him to us had acted to stop me. They were stood staring into the middle-distance as if nothing had happened. I could have gone all the way and they'd have done  nothing to stop me. I could get revenge, but I didn't. I wasn't like him, a murderer. Instead I spat at him, catching him full in the face and then with a last murderous look, I ran. I ran further and faster than I had ever run before. I ran and I ran and I ran. I didn't stop running until I passed, entirely by coincidence, our house. With a strangled cry I hurtled through the unlocked front door, navigated my way through the kitchen and living room, into the garden. I stood there, stock still and panting. I felt drained, like a part of me had just jumped up and run away, leaving a hole in my heart and soul that burned. It burned hot and fast and, if I wasn't careful, it would burn me completely, until I lost it. I wasn't going to let that happen. I would continue battling on, for Angie's sake and that of her parents. Her parents. They didn't even know. Crossing the garden to the fence at the back I opened the gate onto the street, turned left and began to walk.